The Kitchen Camera
An SPH Experience by Bestrunams.
But we have that camera in the kitchen. The one we use to check on the dog when we’re away. It’s connected to my phone.
I pull it up. The feed loads, and I see them gathered around our island counter, wine glasses in hand, candles flickering. There’s my wife, Sarah, in her favorite lounge pants and a loose sweater. Her three friends: Jenna, a tall blonde with a loud laugh; Rachel, the quiet one who always looks like she’s holding back a secret; and Mia, the newly divorced one who’s been drinking the fastest.
They’re deep into something. I turn up the volume.
“—and I’m telling you,” Jenna says, swirling her wine, “if I could fuck Chris Hemsworth for one night, I’d die happy. Just raw, animalistic, no strings.”
Rachel snorts. “You and every other woman on the planet.”
Mia leans forward. “What about you, Sarah? Who’s your freebie?”
My wife laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s blushing. “I don’t know… maybe that guy from the gym? The one with the arms?”
“Pretty safe,” Jenna says. “But we all have our dark horses. Come on, be honest. What’s your dirtiest fantasy?”
Sarah takes a long sip of wine. Then she sets the glass down and looks at her friends. “Okay, but you can’t judge me.”
“We’re all perverts here,” Mia says. “Spill.”
Sarah’s voice drops. “Sometimes… when my husband and I are having sex, I close my eyes and imagine someone else.”
My stomach tightens. I grip the phone tighter.
“Someone specific?” Rachel asks.
“Sometimes it’s a fictional guy. Like, a character from a book or a movie. Other times… it’s someone I know. A guy from work. Or just a stranger I saw at the grocery store.”
Jenna raises an eyebrow. “Does he know?”
“No,” Sarah says quickly. “He wouldn’t… I mean, he’s a good husband. He’s sweet, he’s attentive, he tries. But… something is missing.”
“Size?” Mia says bluntly.
Sarah flushes. She nods.
My hand is shaking now. I put the phone on the dashboard, but I keep watching.
“He’s very small,” she says quietly. “Like, maybe three inches when he’s hard. And thin. He’s good with his mouth, and he uses toys on me, but… when it comes to his cock, it just doesn’t do anything for me.”
“Does he know that?” Rachel asks.
“No. I pretend. I moan, I tell him he feels good, but in my head, I’m picturing someone with a real cock. A thick one. A long one. Someone who could actually fill me up.”
Jenna shakes her head. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not his fault,” Sarah says. “He can’t help it. And I love him. I really do. But love doesn’t make a small dick bigger.”
Mia smirks. “So you use the dildo to get off?”
Sarah laughs, but it’s nervous. “How did you guess?”
“Because we all do,” Mia says. “But most of us use it because our husbands are tired or lazy. You use it because your husband’s cock is inadequate.”
The word hangs in the air. Inadequate.
Sarah doesn’t argue. She just takes another sip.
Rachel speaks up. “My husband is average. Nothing special, but he gets the job done. I’ve never had to fantasize about someone else during sex. That sounds… exhausting.”
“It is,” Sarah admits. “But what can I do? I married him. I love him. I just have to make do.”
“Or,” Mia says, leaning in with a wicked grin, “we could share. Spread the orgasms around.”
“What do you mean?” Jenna asks.
“You know. One of us fucks your husband, you fuck ours. We all get what we need. No strings attached, just pure, selfish pleasure.”
The women laugh, but there’s a current underneath it—a real consideration.
“The logistics would be complicated,” Rachel says dryly.
“But the orgasms would be amazing,” Mia counters.
Sarah is quiet. She’s staring at her wine glass, her cheeks red. I can see the gears turning in her head.
“If we did that,” she says slowly, “who would I be paired with?”
Mia grins. “Me. Because my ex-husband was eight inches and didn’t know what to do with it. I need someone who can use a decent cock.”
“Your ex was eight inches?” Jenna says, eyes wide.
“Yep. And completely useless. All size, no skill. But I’d take that over a tiny one any day. At least you can work with size.”
Sarah laughs, but it’s hollow. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Maybe you should find out,” Mia says. “Just once. No one would have to know.”
The conversation shifts, but I’ve heard enough. I close the app, toss the phone on the passenger seat, and stare at the darkening sky.
Three inches. That’s what she thinks I am. Maybe that’s what I am.
I finish my ribs in silence, then drive home. The car is empty of company, just me and the memory of her words. Inadequate. Doesn’t do anything for me. Small.
I walk into the house. The guests have left. The living room is a mess of wine glasses and empty cheese plates. Sarah is in the bedroom, already changed into a nightie, scrolling on her phone.
“Hey,” she says. “How was dinner?”
“Fine. How was girls’ night?”
“Good. Just talked. Nothing special.”
I look at her. She’s beautiful. I love her. And she thinks my cock is useless.
I climb into bed. I don’t say anything about the camera. I just pull her close, kiss her neck, run my hands down her body. She responds, as she always does, but there’s a distance in her eyes—a politeness.
I go down on her first. I eat her pussy until she’s moaning, until her hips buck, until she comes on my tongue. I taste her, feel her, and I think about what she said. He’s good with his mouth. So I’m good at the appetizer. But the main course? The main course is a disappointment.
When she’s soft and breathing hard, I crawl up her body. My cock is hard—four inches on a good day, maybe three and a half tonight, because the humiliation has shrunk me. I slide into her, and she gasps, but it’s not a gasp of pleasure. It’s a gasp of tolerance.
I pump. I try to be deep, but there’s only so deep I can go. I try to be fast, but my thickness—or lack thereof—means I don’t fill her. I’m a pencil inside a canyon.
She closes her eyes.
I know what she’s doing. She’s imagining someone else. A stranger. A coworker. A fictional character with a real cock. She’s picturing being filled, stretched, used, while I slide my pathetic little nub in and out of her.
I come fast. Too fast. I can’t help it—the pressure, the shame, the knowledge that I’m not enough. I spurt inside her, a few weak pulses, and then I’m done.
She opens her eyes. She smiles. “That was nice.”
Nice. Not amazing. Not mind-blowing. Just nice.
She rolls over, grabs her dildo from the nightstand—a thick, veiny thing at least seven inches long—and lubes it up. She doesn’t ask me to help. She just puts it in, moans, and starts fucking herself with it.
I watch. I watch my wife pleasure herself with a fake cock because my real one can’t do the job.
She comes again, harder this time, her body arching, her mouth open in a real scream. Not the polite moans she gave me. A real, unrestrained, this-is-what-I-need orgasm.
When she’s done, she turns to me, still breathless. “I love you,” she says. “That was great.”
She curls into my chest, her hand on my stomach. I stroke her hair.
And I think about the kitchen camera. About her words. About the friends who joked about sharing orgasms, about pairing her with someone who has a decent cock.
I think about how happy she is. We both came. We both went to bed satisfied.
But I know the truth now. I’m the warm-up. I’m the oral guy. I’m the small-dicked husband who gets nice while a silicone cock gets yes.
And I’m still hard.
The End.
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